Chapter Text
Years had passed since Lightning last came here as a racer, back when he was still a young prodigy eager to take on the world.
He glanced down at his phone—Maps still open—before lifting his eyes to the neon sign glowing above the entrance: Coffee Up hadn’t changed, and that was a relief. The retro café looked almost exactly the same, colorful string lights spilling warmth over the brick walls. Relief washed over him. At least this place had survived the endless wave of sterile minimalism that seemed to swallow every other shop in Los Angeles.
Before Radiator Springs, this café had been something of a refuge amid all the chaos—long trips, daily training, interviews, the pressure and ambition consuming everything around him—and a frequent stop whenever he had the chance to compete. He’d stumbled upon it purely by chance, looking to satisfy his craving for something sweet. He bought a mocha latte, took a photo with the baristas once they realized who he was, and settled into one of the back seats.
That’s when he discovered the hidden arcade section. His eyes had gone wide as a kid’s when he realized they had the classics: Pac-Man, Donkey Kong, Mortal Kombat… and of course, Daytona USA.
Sitting behind the small steering wheel, feet on the pedals, he felt like a child again. It wasn’t the same as sitting in his flashy red car; the usual adrenaline wasn’t there. Instead, a wave of nostalgia and calm washed over him—a rare feeling back then.
That day, he’d nearly been strangled for showing up late to his final practice before race day, but he didn't care. He raced, won first place, received an standing ovation, signed autographs, did the usual interviews, and asked to stay a few more days under the excuse of continuing the celebration and enjoying LA. Those were a couple of fun days, full of parties and trips to the café.
He shook his head at the memory, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Now he stood here again, a completely different man—a mentor, not racer. Never in a million years had he imagined coming back in this role for Cruz, who was on her way to stardom.
The little bell chimed as he pushed the door open. The smell hit him first—espresso, chocolate, and something sweet baking in the back. The buzz of arcade machines echoed faintly, neon lights flickering against the brick… for a moment, Lightning just took it all in. He let his eyes wander until they landed on a wall of framed photos, full of snapshots of staff over the years, festive holidays, and the occasional celebrity visitor.
And there he was. A much younger him, winking at the camera, fingers pointed like toy pistols (a pose the employees around him mimicked), his grin radiant. A small note taped in the corner read: “The best mocha latte I’ve ever had. Love, Lightning McQueen.”
This time, the man smiled more openly, turning to finally join the line to order his drink.
⚡︎
Going to cafés was no habit for Jackson. He didn’t have the time for it, nor did he see the point. His routine was clear and concise, and caffeine cravings weren’t enough to distract him.
But today, he had a few hours off and, a little begrudgingly, he decided to indulge himself. So he put on a black T-shirt, baggy pants, grabbed a random cap to hide his face a bit, cursed himself for not packing for the humid weather, and headed out.
Scrolling through some social media recommendations, he found a place that caught his eye just enough. He wasn’t looking for anything mind-blowing—just a spot to sit, drink something, and be done with it. So he didn’t expect much when he walked into Coffee Up.
The busiest hours had passed, but there were still young people staring at their laptops with a hint of stress, and a few groups of friends chatting over cappuccinos and avocado toast. Jackson rolled his eyes subtly and made his way to the counter—he never understood the appeal of places like this, really.
Only a couple of people were in line, and when he reached the counter, the pink-haired girl working there—Lara, her name tag said—stared at him for a few seconds, clearly starstruck.
“Uh, sorry if this is forward, but… are you Jackson Storm?” she asked, tilting her head to get a better look at his face, mostly hidden under the cap.
Jackson almost sighed in annoyance but quickly covered it with a trademark smirk, lifting his chin slightly. “Yeah, but let’s keep that between us, shall we?”
The girl took his order, her movements frenetic at the presence of a celebrity. A macchiato and a slice of lemon pie right away, she said excitedly.
By the time he paid, the barista leaned toward her co-worker, murmuring something almost conspiratorial. Jackson hadn’t paid much attention at first, but the giggles were hard to ignore.
“—Seriously, what are the odds of having two celebrities here at the same time? I’m not even that into racing, but—”
Two celebrities?
As he calmly made his way to the back seats, his mind started racing. Who else had decided to show up here today? Seeing his competition wasn’t exactly something he wished for, oh God no. Just thinking about it put him in a foul mood. He decided to push it aside for now; he’d know soon enough anyway, since the café wasn’t very big.
He sat in the last booth, tucked in a corner where no one would bother him. The old Christmas lights glowed in greens, blues, and reds, practically burning his eyes. This time he did sigh tiredly, one leg beginning to bounce up and down. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. He wasn’t used to… doing nothing.
He took a few sips of his macchiato—which was delicious, he had to admit—and paused for a moment, trying to remember the last time he’d allowed himself one of these little breaks. Nothing came to mind. Since starting his rise to fame, trophies and big sponsors had taken all of his attention. His parents had taught him that productivity and knowing what you want were the most important things. If you want a break, you better wait until you’re six feet under, his father used to say.
He took a bite of his lemon pie and pulled out his phone to pass the time. He stumbled upon a Cruz Ramirez stan account claiming that 'he didn’t deserve to win the cup because he was just a spoiled child', raised an eyebrow at that, blocked the account, and moved on. Same old story.
He was almost done when he noticed, although a bit late, the arcade section in the other corner, behind some sequin curtains separating the rooms.
Leaning back in his seat, he thought it over. He hadn’t approached an arcade since he was very young, and as he grew up, these places had disappeared. So he didn’t feel the attachment or nostalgia that the café probably hoped to spark in customers. But since he was here, it wouldn’t hurt to take a look.
Finishing his macchiato, he stood up to toss the disposable cup in the trash. He ate the last of his lemon pie and went on.
He crossed the curtains and his senses were hit by neon lights, the hum of machines, the sound of coins clinking to the floor and a kid cursing, the faint smell of sweat and damp air. He tried not to sneer and focused on reading the game titles. They were a mix of classic and modern games, from Street Fighter to Subway Surfers.
He stepped further among the machines. There weren’t many people here, just a group of kids with an older man and a couple playing air hockey… and someone else he couldn’t see clearly from where he stood, playing a racing game. Suddenly, the barista’s words came back to him. Huh, could it be…?
He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to appear nonchalant and walked toward the machine, curiosity pushing him forward.
And froze when he recognized who was sitting there.
Lightning McQueen, tongue out in concentration, blue eyes—now with faint crow’s feet, the only sign of age—focused on the screen. Hands gripping the small plastic wheel as if his life depended on it. He was not the same legendary figure he had looked up to in the past. Now he was…
Jackson clenched his jaw. Coach, mentor, whatever he says he is now… he thought, studying the blond man. And yet he still orbits around me. It was almost mocking, like he was laughing at him behind his back.
A couple of months had passed since Cruz Ramirez suddenly emerged to race instead of McQueen. Nothing had made him angrier than losing to anyone else but the legend in front of him, his rage growing every time he saw him helping the young brunette girl. As if he's some therapeutic assistant rather than a record-holding champion. He simply didn’t get it then, much less now.
His gray eyes narrowed, ignoring the idiot—Champ—and focusing on the screen. A red car hugged the curve perfectly to the rhythm of the man manipulating the toy steering wheel. No cameras in sight, no crowd. Just an old machine and the most contradictory man he’d ever known, racing like he was still on the track.
He stepped closer and stopped behind him.
“Always so dramatic, even on a cheap simulator?”, he finally said, his voice dry.
McQueen turned his head so quickly that his neck snapped. In the game, his car crashed into the wall.
The older man stared at him for a few seconds, then quickly regained his composure and wore an unfazed expression. He exhaled and leaned back against the seat.
"Should've known I'd find you here, of all places," he said, letting go of the steering wheel and dropping his hands into his lap.
"You say it like I planned it."
“Maybe not, but I’m not the one who decided to ruin someone else’s peaceful moment."
“I’d call it the depressing moment of an old codger, more like it.”
The blond man couldn't hide his incredulous expression, shaking his head slowly, without taking his eyes off his. Jackson smirked teasingly; McQueen didn’t return it, as was always the case. Before he could comment further, the dark-haired man added, “The barista said there were two celebrities here today. Never thought it’d be you, though it makes sense,” he nodded at the machine asking for more coins. “Only someone like you would fall for these nostalgia traps. Makes you feel at home, no?”
This time Lightning just frowned and slowly stood up.
One of the things Jackson secretly enjoyed was their height difference. It wasn't much, barely reaching his chin, but it was enough to give him a little power rush.
He took the opportunity to study him face to face. His hair had grown a little, framing his face. The lights reflected in his blue eyes, which stared at him intently. He wore a printed T-shirt that he couldn't quite make out, covered by a red jacket and worn blue jeans. Damn, he looked like a vintage fair mannequin. Pathetic... but somehow imposing.
Finally, he shook his head slightly and responded. “I don’t get what you’re aiming at, Storm. One would think you’d go after Cruz—don’t even try it,” he jabbed a finger at him for emphasis, “but here you are, trying to provoke the ‘old codger.’ Not in the mood today.”
“Fair point. But I’m not the one who quit and ran at the first sign of trouble.”
The older man went silent for a second, jaw tense, then rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Here we go again.”
Jackson decided to ignore him. “You know what’s funny? I thought I’d take you down on the track. And yet you didn’t even have the guts to stay.”
Lightning snorted. "You're acting like a lover who got dumped."
Jackson clicked his tongue in frustration, trying not to focus on the absurd comparison and more on the fact that the man wasn't really taking the bait. That bothered him more than if McQueen had gotten angry and started a fight. That's what he was used to with other competitors. If insults didn't work, what would?
His lack of response drew a small smirk from the other man. Such an irritating guy, truly.
“I’m not going to continue with…,” he gestured with his hand, searching for the right words, “whatever this is. Not at my age.”
Jackson saw an opening and took it immediately. “Ah, but it seems like you do have the age for arcade machines.”
But instead of getting angry or offended, the other simply shrugged.
“Someone has to keep Daytona alive. Consider it my contribution to the culture.”
Jackson’s brows furrowed, adjusting his cap just to have something to do with his hands. Anything other than punching McQueen to get a reaction.
“Culture would’ve benefited more if you’d kept racing and—”
“And what, Storm? Lose with dignity? That’s what you want to hear? Fine, I’ll tell you: yes, I lost. And guess what… the world didn’t end, and I’m happy with my choice. Thanks for asking.”
The young man swallowed the urge to call him a liar, and the silence that followed felt heavier. Jackson held his gaze, heart racing between anger and something else he wouldn’t name.
Eventually, he let out a soft snort, incredulous. "Always so dramatic..."
It was hard to believe the man was genuinely happy with his decision, ignoring the crowd begging him to retire, hiding it all behind sweet words. His resilience and stubbornness—traits of his idolized character—seemed gone.
But of course, it was just a character.
McQueen let out a brief laugh and turned back to the machine. For a moment, Jackson thought he wouldn’t reply, but—
“I’ve always been told I have a flair for drama…”
The neon lights reflected red and blue on his tired profile.
Jackson found himself staring too much, too long. He looked away, annoyed with himself for getting hooked.
He decided to drop it. It was like arguing with a wall. If the guy wasn’t ready to face the truth, that wasn’t his problem. He had an important race coming up, and he’d already wasted more time than necessary.
He noticed McQueen hadn’t gone back to playing, just staring at the screen, ignoring him. Fine.
“Well, it's been awful running into you, champ. Hope it doesn’t happen again.”
And he turned his back to him, immediately feeling his gaze settle on him.
Before he got too far away, he heard a soft—
“Good luck in the race, Storm.”
He hurried his pace to get out of that stupid place as soon as possible, but not before bumping into the pink-haired barista, who asked him for a picture and an autograph to add to a framed collection he hadn't paid attention to before.
And if he lingered a little too long staring at the photo of a smiling young blond, no one had to know about it.
⚡︎
Two days later, and just twenty-four hours before the big race, Jackson decided to go back to Coffee Up.
He told himself that it was for no particular reason, that he had simply liked what he had been fed last time and that he had neither the patience nor the energy to look for another coffee shop. So he got in line; Lara, the barista, was overjoyed to see him back, she took note of his order and, in record time, served him a macchiato and a cheese scone.
He made his way to the same corner as last time, at the back by the arcade games.
To his annoyance, McQueen was already there in the last seat. This time he wasn't playing games, but his gaze, now fixed on a magazine, seemed familiar. He was leaning over the table, coffee in hand, taking small sips.
Jackson sat down across from him without asking, pressing his lips together in irritation when the blond man didn't even bat an eye. It was as if he didn't notice him—which was nonsense.
He tried to peek at what the older man was so focused on, but could only make out some photos of landscapes and roads.
He didn't know how much time had passed, but he was halfway through his own coffee when the other man, still without looking up, spoke.
“You said it wouldn’t happen again.”
Jackson raised an eyebrow, taking a bite of his scone. "Excuse me?"
McQueen finally looked up, his blue eyes meeting Jackson's gray ones. He tilted his head, studying him like a poorly assembled puzzle. "Last time you said that running into me was the worst and that it wouldn't happen again."
Ah, right. What he said that day was more out of frustration than anything genuine. Maybe it was childish, but it irked him that McQueen didn't rise to his taunts, acting like an 80 year-old retiree instead of a guy in his early thirties. Playing at being wiser, better than him, as if he didn't act the same way for most of his career.
Still, this was the same man who had inspired him. Who, at least indirectly, had led him to become who he was today. Of course, he wanted to see him, talk to him, beat him in a real race, but he was too proud to admit it.
"Actually, I said I hoped it wouldn't happen again," he replied, waving his hand dismissively. "I cannot tell which days you'll show up and which days you won't, champ. I'm superior to you in all aspects, but so far I haven't developed any godlike powers."
The man huffed, but decided to ignore the jab again. “Alright then.”
He went back to his stupid magazine as if nothing happened, keeping quiet. Jackson tried not to show his annoyance too obviously, but his eyes narrowed, throwing daggers at the other man’s forehead. This was dumb, and he should leave, he told himself. Yet he stayed put.
The silence was awkward, only concealed by the clatter of cups and the chatter of other customers. He could eat his scone, grab some coins to waste time at the arcade—or just go back to the hotel, change, train, because, fuck it, he had to win tomorrow and pretend this never happened. That's what his coach would want, and Jackson was anything but undisciplined.
Unexpectedly, again, it was the older man who spoke.
“Did you know people drive from Alaska to Patagonia? That’s like, thousands of kilometers.” He barely lifted the magazine, as if he needed to prove he wasn’t making it up.
For a second, Jackson thought he was talking to himself—but no. He was suddenly talking to him as if he was anyone else. He stared at him, incredulous. “...So what?”
McQueen shrugged. “Nothing. Just sounds fun, it’s all.”
“You planning on becoming a hippie backpacker now? Because that would be ridiculous.”
This time the other man didn’t bother hiding his exasperation, he sighed heavily and closed his eyes for a moment. “Are you like this with everyone you talk to? Because if you are, God give me patience.”
Jackson scowled, but he quickly replaced it with an expressionless look. It wasn't the first time that he got accused of taking everything too seriously, or always being so defensive and aggressive. It was part of his personality, and his "bad boy" attitude inevitably appealed to the public, so he never bothered to change it.
But here, the ex-racer was trying to… have a normal conversation, sort of. The thought was almost comical, and Jackson had to bite back a smirk. Lightning McQueen, the legend, reduced to weather talk and small pleasantries—who would’ve guessed.
Yet baiting McQueen had lost its charm for the moment, and this was as close as he’d get to civility. He felt generous enough to humor the man as if they were two strangers making small talk.
The silence stretched a little too long, though, and Jackson blurted the first thing that came to mind. “So… where exactly is Patagonia?”
Okay, play along didn't mean sounding stupid. But still.
The other man stared at him amused, pressing his lips together slightly as if holding back laughter. Maybe he found his ignorance funny, or just the sudden change in his attitude. Could be both. “It’s the south of Argentina. I also read they call it the end of the world.”
“How dramatic.”
“Maybe,” he conceded, “but it makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“I guess. You read that in that article of yours?” Jackson asked, lightly pointing to the page he was holding.
“Yeah, about a couple who did the whole trip. Took them years to plan, and the trip itself? Over two years.”
Jackson leaned in a little closer while finishing the last bite of his scone. “Two years on the road, huh… sounds like a nightmare,” he said, waving his hand as if dismissing the idea. “Sleeping in tents, showering once a week, eating canned food, and on top of that, having to deal with another person. Yeah, i’ll pass.”
“Really?” McQueen raised an eyebrow. “Thought challenges were your thing.”
“One thing is a challenge, another is torture.”
The blond chuckled, lowering the magazine. “Well, when I really retire, I’ll do it. I’ll send you a postcard when I get there.”
Jackson glanced at him, trying not to overthink what he’d just said. Because when he actually retires, that means they won’t have to see each other anymore. No excuse to cross paths—and he didn’t quite know how to feel about that.
Realizing he hadn’t answered, he quickly said. “I don’t doubt it, champ. I’m sure you’d cross an entire continent just to mess with me.”
This time the man merely nodded distractedly, flipping through the pages looking for… something. A few seconds passed before he seemed to find it, a playful smile forming on his face. “Aha. Horoscopes.”
Oh, no.
Jackson rolled his eyes. Maybe he shouldn’t have played along so much. “Don’t tell me you actually believe that crap.”
“I don’t, but Cruz does. You’d be surprised how into astrology she is. Anyway…” He lifted the paper, cleared his throat, and read in an overly dramatic voice, “Leo: it’s time to accept that not everything in life is a race. Sometimes you have to stop, breathe, and enjoy the journey.” He looked up at him with that half-smile that always got on Jackson's nerves. "Lucky color: red."
Jackson tilted his head slightly, silently asking, “seriously?”
“Now you’re just making that up.”
“Just the color,” he admitted, “but the rest sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
“Come on champ, they're just random sentences to make you feel special. Bullshit.”
McQueen pursed his lips, thoughtful for a moment. His fingers lightly tapped against the magazine as he replied. “Tell me your zodiac sign.”
Jackson couldn’t help it—he let out a small, incredulous laugh. “Why?”
“To read yours, what else?” the older man said seriously, though the spark in his eyes gave away his mirth.
Jackson shook his head. “I’m not giving you that info.”
“Why not? We need to see if it's bullshit as you say.”
But the younger didn’t budge, crossing his arms. Somehow, he could see that only fueled the spark in the other's eyes, as if a silent challenge had been accepted.
McQueen settled into his seat, scrutinizing him from head to toe. “Hm… you’re an Aries. Impulsive, competitive, short-tempered, impatient—”
Jackson cut him off. “Are you describing me, or just insulting me?”
The blond chuckled, shifting tactics. “Fine, Capricorn. Stubborn, obsessive, always trying to prove you’re superior…” He raised the magazine like a judge delivering a sentence.
Jackson lay back in his seat, reluctant to indulge him with a reaction, though he let out a small snort.
“Look, if you don’t tell me your sign, you won’t know when your lucky day is,” McQueen added, as if it was too important, like he was plotting a race strategy. “And if you lose tomorrow, it’ll be your fault.”
That made him laugh genuinely, and he quickly covered his mouth to hide it, but the damage was done. “You’re ridiculous, champ.”
“Ridiculous, yes, but strategic,” he replied, hiding his face behind the pages. It didn’t avoid Jackson noticing the gleam of victory in his expression, the same look he had seen on TV years ago.
That made him feel a tiny pressure in his chest, and without knowing why, he admitted: “You got it right anyway. I’m a Capricorn.”
He felt a pang for his bruised pride, but the way the blond’s face lit up as if he’d won the lottery softened the blow.
McQueen read his silly horoscope in his usual tone this time. “Capricorn: an unexpected encounter will bring you challenges, but also valuable lessons.”
Jackson stared at the paper for a few seconds, frowning slightly as if trying to unpick the words by force. Yet the quiet that followed was different from before. Less awkward, more… expectant.
McQueen turned the page like nothing had happened, as always, taking a final sip of his coffee.
And Jackson, against every instinct, stayed.
⚡︎
The light turned from red to green, and the roar of engines exploded in his ears. Jackson felt the car vibrating beneath his hands, every turn transmitting raw speed straight into his body. The track stretched ahead, every curve pulling him back to his childhood, when toy cars were his whole world and conquering the road was his dream.
There was nothing like home.
Ahead of him, Cruz Ramirez pushed forward with unwavering confidence, the yellow of her car catching the last rays of sunlight. Adrenaline and competitiveness mixed in his chest. Every move she made forced him to sharpen his focus even more.
The first curve came fast. Jackson turned the wheel with precision, feeling the tires fight the asphalt. He swore he could sense Ramirez’s smug grin as she slipped past on the inside. His jaw tightened, strategy shifting in an instant.
The only thing consuming his mind was crossing that finish line first—an instinct so primal it existed only here, on the track. Not today, he thought. I’m not letting you win that easily.
Turns came and went, one after another. Every overtake was its own silent battle. Jackson’s senses were on fire: the smell of burning rubber, the roar of engines around him, the wind hammering against his helmet—
From the sidelines, Lightning McQueen leaned against the pit wall, shouting encouragement. “You got this, Cruz!”
By the time they reached the final stretch, Jackson and Cruz were neck and neck. Breaths held under helmets, hands gripping the wheel tight. The crowd and commentators clutched their heads in anticipation.
The finish line lit up before them under the stadium lights. Jackson’s whole body tensed as he slammed the accelerator down to the floor, his engine roaring like a beast unleashed.
For a heartbeat, he believed he had it. That he would have it. But then—
Cruz’s yellow car edged forward by mere centimeters at the last second.
The crowd erupted, deafening. “Ramirez wins! Ramirez takes it by milliseconds!”
Jackson crossed a breath later. His chest burning, his ears were ringing with a strange whine. A vein in his temple felt ready to burst.
While the audience went wild for the brunette girl honking her horn in triumph, all he saw was the finish line shrinking in his rearview mirror, mocking him as it slipped away.
The headache didn’t fade—not during the cool-down lap he drove on autopilot, not when he finally pulled up in front of his team, their wary expressions treating him like some predator that had broken out of a cage.
It didn’t fade during the interviews either. If anything, it worsened when he caught sight of Ramirez posing for pictures with the trophy, showered in congratulations.
And worst of all—when McQueen rushed over to pull her into a tight hug.
For a moment, Jackson felt the roar of the stadium disappear. All that remained was that gesture, that smile on McQueen’s face meant for someone else. He had never once had the chance to see him smile like that, not since he first joined the races.
An uncomfortable spark burned hot in his gut—whether it was rage, or something else, he couldn’t tell.
⚡︎
It was already night by the time Jackson finally shook off the cameras and microphones. It had taken a good while—and a lot of water—for the throbbing in his head to ease from a full-blown migraine into something bearable. He needed space. Silence. Air. Anything.
He slipped down a side hallway of the stadium, tugging the brim of his cap low until it covered half his face, his other hand gripping the helmet that hung at his side.
Turning the corner toward the parking lot, he saw him.
McQueen was leaning casually against his red car, Ramirez’s team jacket draped over his shoulders, blond hair slightly mussed, his expression relaxed, phone glowing faintly in his hand and lighting up the blue of his eyes.
Jackson should’ve ignored him. Just kept walking. It was a public lot, after all.
But—
Damn it. His feet dragged him in McQueen’s direction before his brain caught up. Shit, shit, shit—what the fuck am I doing?
“I figured you’d still be bouncing from party to party with Ramirez,” he said, his voice coming out hoarse, echoing strangely in the quiet space.
The older man glanced up from his screen, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it softened into mild curiosity. He was so lost in his phone he hadn’t noticed him approach.
“Uh, well,” McQueen started, wetting his lips as if weighing how much to say, “I had to make a call home.” He finished with a shrug, resting an arm on the hood.
Jackson closed the gap a few steps, masking his interest with nonchalance. “Ah. To your girlfriend, right? What was her name again? Sadie, Sammy—”
“Her name’s Sally,” McQueen cut in, rolling his eyes. “And she’s not my girlfriend anymore.”
Jackson ignored the small, twisted flicker of satisfaction that stirred in his chest. He told himself it was only because relationships distracted drivers from their careers. That was all. Nothing more.
“Can I ask why?”
McQueen arched both brows at him, skeptical. “I’m not having a heart-to-heart with you, Storm.”
Jackson pressed a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “And here I thought we had something special after our little coffee shop date.”
It was meant as a joke. Mostly. But when he tried to pick apart his own words for a lie, he couldn’t. That had been the most relaxed, even fun, conversation he’d had in years. Their banter had flowed so easily. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked about anything that wasn’t races, championships, or trophies. Not that he disliked those things, but… maybe he was just curious. Curious about what it was like to talk to someone who—hell, a legend. An idol.
“If you think small talk counts as a heart-to-heart, you’ve got problems,” McQueen replied lightly, slipping his phone into his pocket. “But since you’re so desperate to know, it’s simple. Things didn’t work out, and—”
“Sometimes you’ve gotta stop, breathe, and enjoy the journey?” Jackson cut in, mocking the horoscopes from the café.
“Exactly. See? Maybe astrologers are onto something.”
Jackson stared at him, caught between disbelief and exasperation. McQueen didn’t look away either, and for a few stretched seconds, silence pressed in around them. The muffled hum of distant crowds was the only sound left.
It was McQueen who broke the eye contact, gaze shifting past Jackson as his teeth caught lightly on his lower lip. For a heartbeat, the younger man swore he saw a flicker of nerves cross his face, like he was debating something with himself again.
“You did really well out there today, you know?”
The compliment jolted through Jackson’s chest, swallowed instantly by the familiar knot of frustration. No, he hadn’t done well. He didn't win. And hearing it from him— from his rival’s mentor—only sharpened the sting.
He opened his mouth to retort, but McQueen cut in first. “Before you bite my head off, just listen—”
“Why the hell should I listen to you—?”
“Because I know how you feel!” McQueen’s voice rose, raw. “I’ve been where you are, I know what it’s like to fall down that rabbit hole, and I know it ain't pretty.”
“Assuming you understand how I feel doesn’t help me, McQueen,” Jackson shot back, voice dry as ice. “Actually, it makes me feel worse—seeing how you ended up.”
His eyes swept him up and down with disdain. Now it was McQueen’s turn to flinch, pride stung. One step forward, two steps back.
“…If that’s what you think of me, I can’t change it,” he muttered, something unplaceable threading through his tone. And Jackson didn’t feel one ounce of regret. Not one. Really. “But if this is one of the last times we’ll see each other, then at least let me say my piece.”
“Which is…?”
McQueen straightened, pushing off his car, closing the space between them until only inches remained. He had to tip his chin back slightly to meet Jackson’s gaze, blue eyes burning with an intensity that sent an almost imperceptible shiver down Jackson’s spine.
“That trophies don’t define your worth. Not as a racer, not as a… person.” His voice softened on the last word.
This time, Jackson was the one who looked away, catching the stadium lights glinting off the car’s polished surface. For a moment, the world shrank to just this—shared breaths, the faint scent of McQueen’s cologne clinging to the air, and a strange warmth curling in his chest from being this close.
“I’m just saying…” McQueen continued, swallowing thickly, “don’t let this eat you alive.”
With that, he turned slowly and moved toward the driver’s side door. Jackson didn’t move, even as the door creaked open. He thought about saying something—anything—to release the fury still coiled inside him. But nothing came.
McQueen mumbled something under his breath.
“What?” Jackson asked sharply.
A quiet huff, and then, clearer: “Your horoscope. Did it come true?”
If this was his idea of easing the tension, it was ridiculous. But this time, Jackson let out a breath and gave him the simplest answer.
“…I don’t know.”
The older man nodded faintly, as if that was enough, and slid into the car. The engine rumbled to life, headlights cutting across the lot. Jackson stood frozen, watching as the red car pulled farther and farther away.
Only then did he exhale sharply, rubbing at his eyes, muttering under his breath—
“...Dramatic old man,” he scoffed, but his voice lacked its usual bite.
⚡︎
Jackson shut off the simulator and leaned back in his seat, sweat drying slowly on his skin.
The days after the race had been quiet and monotonous: training, diet-approved meals, and constant reviews of his lap times. Others might call it a coping mechanism after his loss, but he considered it an effective one. No time for rest, no time for thinking or socializing. Without discipline, there would be no results—simple as that.
And yet, he was—unfortunately—human. And like every other human nowadays, he was not immune to the most basic temptations. One of them was coffee. The other, his damn phone.
Conversations with McQueen kept circling his mind, so much so that in a moment of weakness, he looked him up on social media. It wasn’t difficult—his profile was already verified. He only wanted a glance, just to monitor the competition and keep the enemy close, or whatever. He had to repeat that to himself several times as he scrolled through the ex-racer’s posts.
Most of the recent photos had been taken in that strange little town he lived in—Radiator Springs, he remembered. Some were with friends, others with Ramirez and her team, others with him alone… and in all of them, he wore that genuine smile, the same kind that had caught Jackson’s eye on the picture frame hanging inside Coffee Up. Something youthful and free was always etched onto his face.
From this, Jackson gathered a little more information about the legend—small flashes of a parallel life forever out of his reach. That should have been enough, but the obsessive itch inside him wanted more. Maybe the blond wasn’t so wrong about his zodiac sign after all.
He stood from his chair and set his phone face-down on the table, as if that would erase what he’d just done. But the images were burned into his mind—McQueen laughing with his friends, walking through that godforsaken town, looking at the camera with an expression Jackson had never once seen in person.
He nearly smacked his own forehead in frustration. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, tilting his head back toward the ceiling. “Why do I even care what he does?”
His only answer was the silence of his apartment. Normally it was comforting, but these last few days it had become suffocating—crowding him with the weight of defeat and the memory of empathetic words. It was driving him insane. No joke.
It was later, lying on his king-sized bed and struggling to fall asleep, when the idea struck him as suddenly as an engine roaring to life.
He could take a trip to Radiator Springs…
Not to visit McQueen. Or at least, not just for that. It could be a getaway, a change of scenery—maybe that’s what he needed to reset his focus. What better place than there to see life beyond the track and these four walls? Even better, he could analyze the competition in his natural habitat.
Perfect. Very strategic. Ridiculous, yes, but strategic, said a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like the blond.
With the thought lodged firmly in his mind, he forced himself to sleep, if only for a couple of hours.
⚡︎
The next morning, he was still trying to convince himself this was a good plan as he grabbed his car keys and tossed a backpack with only the bare essentials onto the back seat. He’d thrown on a pair of dark blue baggy jeans and a short-sleeved black shirt, fit for the spring weather.
He second-guessed himself again as he slid behind the wheel. He didn’t have to do this—not really. But the thought of seeing those blue eyes again, the ones that had stuck in his mind since the race, the thought of satisfying his curiosity and witnessing firsthand how someone so much like him had ended up in a place like that…
With a determined grunt, he started the engine. “Whatever happens, happens,” he muttered, before speeding off toward the highway that would take him straight into the desert.